


His Hands

by meanpancake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Orchestra, Conductor!Armand, Disabled Characters, Gen, M/M, OC sisters, Slow Burn, Violinist!Jean, enemies/rivals to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2019-11-04 22:24:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17906777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanpancake/pseuds/meanpancake
Summary: [“He can come with us to the Rossignol later.”Jean smiles a little at Armand. (His heart hurts.) “Did she ask you before she included you in our plans?”“No, I made an assumption,” Amélie replies with a smile.“I’d love to come if you’ll have me.” Armand can’t fucking believe his fucking mouth.“Sure,” Jean says with ease and taps on his cane, watching the orchestra take their place on the stage.]Jean Treville, colorful violin prodigy, gets a chance to work with (in)famous star conductor Armand Richelieu at the Philharmonie de Paris. What should've been the collaboration of a lifetime turns out to be quite challenging for both of them as their worlds - and egos - clash.





	1. brisk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [naeviastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeviastark/gifts).



> Since I'm not a musician - neither in theory nor in practice - please bear with me re: possible inaccuracies and errors, because knowing that I know nothing doesn't necessarily make for a better case here. Also, while you're still here, please give Mozart In The Jungle a try, because this basically started out as a MitJ AU until it took a turn down the less fun and more dramatic route (oops, she did it again).
> 
> All artwork created by the one and only [naeviastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeviastark/pseuds/naeviastark) (LOVE YOU), who you have to thank for the existence of this fic, and who wants you to know the following: The slow writing/updating is part of the slow burn experience!
> 
> I'll add content notes/warnings as they apply.
> 
> **Chapter warning** : behaviour that can be read as self-harm (implicit)

 

The conductor hates him from the very first moment. The literal first moment, he doesn’t even get to say more than his name before the conductor starts hating him.

“Hi, I’m Jean Treville. The solo violinist…?”

And so it starts. Jean, sporting his most professional charming smile, holds out a hand – only to see it ignored completely. Even worse, his opposite, or rather _famed conductor Richelieu_ , clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes, all in the span of a heartbeat. Before Jean can react, his face and demeanor return to cold, closed, _I hate you_. His hand getting ignored once more, Jean lets it sink, rising an even brighter smile in its stance (he won’t stoop to this snob monkey’s level, not after he worked so hard for this).

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, conductor.”

“Well, Mr. Treville, the pleasure is mine.” Richelieu doesn’t even try to mask his lie, his voice so obviously displeased that Jean is tempted to laugh him off. But he won’t, not now, not on his first fucking day. Instead he tries: “It’s Jean.”

Scoffing. “I don’t think so, Mr. Treville. We are not in one of your… little unpaid performances on the street. This is the Paris symphony. This is serious.” Giving Jean’s outfit a dismissive look, he adds: “It’s time you act like it, Mr. Treville. I expect formal attire to tomorrow’s rehearsal. You may leave now.”

“I didn’t even play one tune yet.”

“That I’m aware of, thank you very much. Now, if you’re done taking my time? I have an orchestra to conduct.”

“But-”

Richelieu stops Jean as he would have stopped him on stage, wordlessly, with just a curt movement of his hand. His eyes are cold, his voice colder: “You’re dismissed, Mr. Treville. Good day.”

Jean smiles sweetly. “And to you, conductor.”

Richelieu huffs, turns around and leaves. His steps echo through the wide halls of the Parisian Symphony, his goddamn _cape_ moving swiftly with each of them. If anybody is dressed inappropriately, it’s Richelieu, Jean thinks. And to think that someone who is only a few years older than him (yes, Jean has goggled Richelieu because he likes to know his conductors, yes, some of them intimately, yes, he’d considered getting to know Richelieu intimately from his looks, but definitely not now, no, thank you) could be such a prosperous, obnoxious, arrogant sack of asshole-ness… like an old rich man stuck in a posh boy’s body. And to think he’s not even talented enough to justify his fucking behavior? He’s good, he may be great, but he’s not the best. Maybe that’s why he needs this arrogant bigger-than-life persona. It’s either hilarious or sad.

Picking up his violin case, Jean decides to settle for hilarious. He’s survived worse. He will survive _conductor_ Richelieu.

Shaking his head, he leaves the symphony house. From behind him, he hears the orchestra come in. It’s sunny and warm and Jean laughs. A free day that he gets paid for? Why, he could get used to it.

 

 

Armand gets up early. He doesn’t like getting up early, but it’s a habit and, as people have been telling him, one that is a virtue not a flaw (not that he’s allowed to have any flaws, mind you). He drinks tea, not coffee, even though he loves coffee. But it makes his hands shaky and who would hire a conductor with shaky hands? Nobody in their right mind, that’s for fucking sure. The tremor is bad enough already, not that anybody needs to know, not that Armand in particular likes to know.

His hands – his only flaw. Ironic, really. They’re all he has and yet…

Disgusted, he finishes his morning routine. Still the voices of the ensemble resonate in his mind, first their excitement, then their disappointment, and finally their resignation, acceptance. And all because he sent that fucking boy away. Oh, wonder boy, miracle boy, orphan boy gifted with the hands of a genius, blessed fucking violin boy, Jean Treville.

He hates him. Everything about him, from the hair to the freckles to the dimples to the smile to the mismatched clothes to the way he holds out his hand in greeting and, finally, the way he plays that fucking violin like God himself choose the instrument for him and gave him the matching hands. He plays fucking divine and Armand hates him so much for it that he wants to cry.

Armand stares at himself in the mirror. Everything in his life is about hands. It should be about music, maybe passion, something, well,  _anything_ than fucking hands. Yet here he is, obsessing about strangers’ hands and not able to look at his own without feeling the urge to throw up.

The _irony_.

And today promises to be a disaster. A small, inevitable, personal disaster. Sending the Treville boy away worked once, maybe, but he couldn’t justify withholding his orchestra the star player another day. He was hired for one series of performances, not permanently, so that fact was what Armand would hold on to.

It was a temporary situation. He wouldn’t have to get used to _It’s Jean_.

(Thank fucking God.)

 

 

The main symphony hall is illuminated by the sun: Dark wood, fine marble, plush red velvet cushions on the seats, golden details, all dipped in soft yellow light. It’s beautiful and impressive and leaves Jean a bit dizzy.

He’s early. He likes being early to rehearsals. He likes walking on stage barefoot (something conductor Richelieu wouldn’t ever allow, he guesses) to feel the ground he’ll play on, he likes tuning his violin in the morning’s solitude, and he likes looking at the empty rows while humming his solo piece and drinking coffee (which also isn’t allowed by conductor Richelieu, as an email by the board made him aware of last night).

Sipping coffee and pacing the stage, Jean smiles. It’s good. _This_ is good. One frustrated hateful individual won’t ruin this for him.

 

 

Armand is late. No, that’s not quite right. He’s late _on purpose_ , because honestly? He won’t be the one entertaining Treville during the minutes until the rehearsal. Let the others do it, star-struck, heart-eyed, wet and hard and all-too ready for their new solo violinist.

 _That’s fucking gross_ , Armand thinks to himself, but he feels a sly smile tug on the corner of his mouth. This is how far he’s sunk. Smiling only because he imagines his – _his_ – ensemble as unprofessional groupies in the presence of a somewhat famous violinist. Surely, he’s mistaken and just being a bitter jealous-

He comes to a halt, blinking. What the _fuck_.

The ensemble, literally everyone, is gathered around Treville who has the nerve to lean onto his conductor’s stand. At least he’s wearing proper clothes today. Still, Armand feels his throat go tight with anger. Paper cups stand on the edge of the stage, chatting fills the room, and nobody seems to even notice him entering. He’s too hurt- no, angry, he’s too _angry_ to make himself known, just stands there silently fuming. If he’d held a baton, it would be shaking violently. The shaking baton – his greatest nightmare, even greater than this.

“Oh, guys, hey- good morning, conductor!”, Treville says, smiling brightly, and the others fall silent for a moment, following his lead, so a wave of _Good Mornings_ rolls towards Armand. It is not a good morning. Wordlessly, he climbs onto stage. He looks at the half-empty paper cups – the smell of coffee tickling the inside of his skull -, and doesn’t say anything. His throat is too tight, his face feels so hot that he thinks his skin might burst. Blood rushing through his ears, in the rhythm of his heart, washing out the sound of the ensemble taking the cups away and getting seated.

He looks at Treville (not a trace of guilt or respect visible in his face), looks at his cellist, oboist, pianist, drummer, every single orchestra member (obvious traces of guilt and respect visible in their faces), looks at his baton (seeing it shake in his hands as if he can look into the future).

“Good morning.” His voice sounds cold and distant and unlikable and Armand thanks God for it. “I see you’ve met your solo violinist, Mr. Treville.”

Nods, no words.

“Well, if you’re done chatting I would like to work. Anyone who has a problem with that may now leave the stage. I’ll wait.”

No movement. Only Treville picks up his violin – a brightly pink painted one – and gives him a long look that is nothing, _nothing_ but a dare. It says, _try me_. Armand looks back icily, hoping it says, _fuck you_. Treville hardly blinks, even smiles softly and sympathetically. Armand hates him with all his heart.

He picks up the baton, carelessly flips through the sheets of music, and says: “We start from the coda.”

He doesn’t wait for the orchestra to get ready and starts conducting right away. A single violin tune fills the grand hall. Oh, so wonder boy isn’t just a genius, he’s always ready too. Nobody else follows, not fast enough anyway. Well, that settles that.

Armand drops the baton, carelessly, clicks his tongue. He feels a nasty satisfaction settle in his chest as he announces: “That’s it. We can try again tomorrow. See that you regain your manners until then or I’m forced to cancel the rehearsal. Again. Good day.”

Armand leaves the stage, feels many confused and annoyed and yes, hateful looks pierce his back. To his sick joy, nobody dares to say a word. Not even Treville. He probably even stopped smiling his sickening soft sorry smile of his.

Armand steps into the warmth of the morning.

A rehearsal lost, the first battle of a war of nerves won. A disaster, but a disaster in _his_ favor. They can hate him all they fucking want.

He wins. That’s all that matters.

 

 

Jean notices the exact moment when his skin breaks. The C string is suddenly slippery and hot and evades the grip of his numb fingers – he curses through the, now ruined, finale of the improvised six-hour piece. His violin cries angrily, articulating his thoughts and feelings with the precision of a scalpel, even though it sounds brachial, unclean, manic.

Angry tears prick in his eyes and he stops playing abruptly. To the small room, the non-existing audience he hints a bow. If he’d let in the neighbors who had stomped against his door, hit walls, yelled at him to _stop fucking torturing everyone with this fucking instrument_ , he would’ve had at least a room full of people. Now there’s nobody but him and his blood-stained violin.

“It’s been a pleasure,” he says through clenched teeth and actively fights the urge to smash the violin against the nearest surface. Instead he puts it back into the red velvet of its case. Safe, sound, bloodied. He can’t make himself care enough to clean it.

When it was anger that kept him standing and playing for the better part of the day, it is exhaustion that pulls Jean down into his bed now. He looks at his left hand, examines the fingertips of his ring and middle finger where the strings have eaten away the skin and left them raw and open. Putting them in his mouth and sucking on them, salty metal-y taste sweeping over his tongue, pain settling in, he tries to remember the last time this happened. He can’t really remember. It must’ve been during his teen years, when he was lonely and angry and rejected by all the major musical institutions.

He was brilliant, they’d say, but not quite what they were looking for. Sorry. _It’s been a pleasure_ listening to you. Please come again.

Jean feels the unshed tears getting hotter. He hates how Richelieu makes these feelings come back; how he makes him play like he’s a boy again, whose deepest expression of himself sounds like nasty screeching and a hammering on an instrument he isn’t worthy of; how he makes him feel small and insignificant and guilty.

He wants to quit. It almost makes him smile. Who quits after they haven’t even had their first rehearsal? Nobody who wants to get hired again. Nobody like him, anyway, who comes from nothing and could potentially lose everything. It’s unbearably unfair, but that’s how it is.

With his good hand he dials Amélie’s number, and she picks up after two rings, an empathetic smile in her voice: “Hey, little genius. Your roommate’s already been calling me about you playing like you’re possessed, and that was like four hours ago.”

Jean sighs. “It’s been that kind of day.”

“The conductor is still an ass?”

“You wouldn’t believe _how_ much of an ass…”

 

 

The next morning the orchestra is well-behaved, tight-lipped, concentrated. Even Treville pulls himself together, so he almost fits into the picture of professional, serious musicians surrounding him. To his own shame Armand has to admit that he plays with a skill that is unique in the orchestra, even though he’s hurt his hand. What could he do with his full range, his full potential? Armand doesn’t want to know. Even the fucking angels would weep, probably. He himself would weep.

Time flies by. For what it’s worth, it was a great rehearsal. (Armand hates it and hates himself for it. A conductor who wants to see his orchestra fail? Disgusting.)

After the rehearsal, he says to the players: “Thank you for your attendance.” He’s honestly thankful. He wouldn’t have come back to that sort of conductor, not when he could still play the cello like he did, well, before. “See you tomorrow.”

He’s met with silent nods. Grown women and men, silent, musicians of world-status looking as if they were to be judged as singers or dancers or whateverthefuck they were bad at. Well, then.

Armand leaves, rolling his eyes. It’s as if his temper-tantrum yesterday shied them into silence, as if they are scared to speak. And he isn’t even known for moodiness, it was a one-time thing in the face of utter fucking disrespect. It was understandable, reasonable even. But of course, they refuse to see that. They can all kiss his fucking-

“Maestro Richelieu, may I have a word?”

Treville’s voice, of fucking course. Armand wants to snort and dismiss him and his divine hands, but he’s supposed to show good will (as suggested by a mail by the board last night), so he winks him to his side. He doesn’t stop walking. “A minute.”

“Thank you, but I can’t keep up with that pace. Bad leg.” Treville says casually, shifting Armand’s focus from his hands to his pace and really; his least favorite violin prodigy walks with a limp. He’d never noticed. He stops. “Very well. Make it quick.”

“Okay, then I’ll cut the pleasantries.” Treville smiles and it makes Armand’s blood boil. “You don’t like me and that’s okay, you don’t have to like me. I need you to give me a minimum of respect and willingness to work with me, though. You left me hanging during my solo and really, I have many talents, but I’m no mind-reader. If you’re unwilling to conduct me, inform the board and they will decide who has to leave.” He sounds earnest, and he should probably look him in the face for once, but Armand can’t stop looking at his hands. Did he not conduct him? He has no memory of ignoring his part. All he knows is that he played it to the point.

Mistaking his silence for arrogance or something similar (not the honest surprise it is), Treville adds: “I come to you first because I’m a firm believer of fair game. Now it’s up to you. Anyway, the minute’s up. Thank you for your time, conductor. Have a nice day.”

Treville leaves him standing and Armand feels like an idiot, hot cheeks, boiling blood.

It hits him how everything Treville said is based on the truth. He doesn’t have to like him, he can even hate him, even though he shouldn’t, he has no reason other than his fucking hands, and really? That reason is the smallest-minded, pettiest, nastiest reason imaginable, a mixture of envy and resentment and his own old hurt, a reason that has nothing to do with Treville and everything with himself.

It doesn’t mean that he stops hating Treville. Actually, maybe he hates him more now. After he’s been the bigger person, the one treating him with fairness and respect and un-smugness. God, Armand really fucking hates him. _So much_.

He feels as if the second battle ends in a tie. Everyone else would call for a truce, but Armand straightens his back and leaves the Symphony Hall. This has only just begun.

 

 

Jean meets Amélie in her bar. She wears a sparkly dress, smokes, and moves her glass so that the ice cubes clink against it. She waves at him, sitting at the bar, legs crossed, and hair loose.

“I’m sorry I missed your performance,” he says as she rises to kiss him on the cheek. Her hair brushes against his skin and leaves a tickling sensation.

“Don’t worry I’ll go again,” she looks at her – sparkly – watch, “in twenty, actually.” She smiles and it’s radiant and blinding and he loves to see her happy. “So, sit down and keep me company? Do you want something to drink? On the house, of course.”

Jean shakes his head and Amélie grabs his hand, looks at his tortured fingers. She cocks an eyebrow.

“So… how was rehearsal today?”

“Don’t ask.”

Amélie waits.

“He straight-up refused to conduct me.” Jean huffs. “It’s literally his job, but okay, keep ignoring me I guess.”

“Wow, okay? It amazes me how you put up with this.”

“Trust me, I won’t for much longer. I asked him to change his attitude towards me so we can work together and he looked at me like I told him to give me special treatment.” Jean feels anger, _hurt_ , rise in his chest, making it harder to breathe. “I didn’t even ask for a chair. I didn’t complain when my leg killed me during my solo, I just carried on, and he can’t muster up the decency to treat me like a part of the ensemble?”

“That’s low. I’m sorry,” Amélie says, an upset look overshadowing her face. “Are you sure there’s no way out of the contract? I mean you do have valid reasons to quit.”

“Can’t. I have to keep up a professional reputation.” Jean sighs, and adds: “Sadly. Also, we play on Christmas and I need that extra money.”

“I see. Drink with me, then,” Amélie says, “just to get your mind off things.”

“You want me to sing with you.”

“Maybe.” Her smile is back, and it’s filled with warm admiration, love. “Since you didn’t bring your violin, it’s the next best thing.”

“I can play the piano for you, you know.”

“Tsk, I wouldn’t want to push your poor wounded fingers – your vocal cords on the other hand… You won’t need them for your serious professional orchestra job, no?”

Jean shakes his head, laughs. “Okay, if you insist. One song. And I choose.”

“You can certainly pick the duet, yes, darling.”

She smiles, and he smiles and the night rushes past them, filled with perfect tunes – Amélie’s -, Jean’s more or less honorable attempts at keeping up with her, and the calming knowledge that whatever happens, he can always come back to this.

Richelieu will be gone from his life soon enough.

But this? This will last.

 


	2. lyrical

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahem, good evening, dear audience, and welcome to part two of this slow, slow performance - now without further ado curtains, I mean, _lights_ , please!
> 
> **Chapter warnings:** [internalized] ableism, vague reference to a car accident, reference to suicidal ideation

The recording is painful to listen to. Not because it’s bad, not because it’s in any way flawed, actually, but because it reminds him of what he had – of what he’s lost and can never regain.

Armand turns it off. He swallows heavily. The bittersweet sounds of the cello, his cello, his sister’s cello, resound in his mind and he wants to puke. He doesn’t know why he does this, time and time again. It’s masochism, probably. Not that knowing what it is would help to prevent it.

He would do it again.

He _will_ do it again. But not tonight.

It’s a lonely night. Certain people could wax poetically about it, this distinctive brand of loneliness – the self-made, self-inflicted, selfless kind – but it just leaves Armand tired. He wishes his apartment was smaller so the empty lifelessness of it would exist in a more restricted space and feel smaller than it does now.

He doesn’t look at the clock when he lies down in his bed in the dark and stares at the ceiling. The noise of Paris’ nightlife fills his room. Lights flicker across the walls, yellow and sometimes blue, and then sirens would blare their urgent calls into the night.

Armand flexes his left hand, his bad hand, and wishes there would be pain. Instead there’s only lingering numbness, a slight tremor. It never goes away. It will never go away again. A good thing he can hold the baton in his right hand. (As long as his right hand remains like it is, aching but functional, as long as the nerve damage doesn’t worsen and leave him with two useless hands; a thing no doctor, no specialist was able to promise him yet. What’s a musician without his hands? Nothing.)

He wonders if things would’ve been different if he would’ve met Treville when he was still playing the cello, when he was only half as bitter as he is now. Maybe he wouldn’t have hated him and made Treville hate him too. Or maybe it wouldn’t have mattered, and they were destined to hate each other, destined to be rivals.

Rivalry? Armand snorts. Then he almost smiles, a cold bitter thing tugging at the corner of his mouth. Treville would always win, no matter the timeline, no matter the circumstance. He would win and Armand would lose. Such is the destiny of those who are born mediocre. He would know. He always knew.

Some things never change.

Armand tries to remember what, how Treville’s played that kept him so mesmerized that he didn’t conduct him. Didn’t even think of conducting him. The answer is simple and shames him and he feels his face getting hot.

God, his hands. God.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

 

 

“Stop.”

Richelieus voice cuts into his solo – for the fifth time in a row – and Jean ends the note abruptly, turns his violin down. It’s a bright-yellow one, kinda tacky, one of his favorites. Richelieu didn’t even bat an eye on it. The silence is all-consuming, nobody moves.

“I said molto espressivo not hyper-dramatic. From the beginning, if you would, Mr. Treville.”

“Maestro,” Jean replies and can’t help but smile wildly. His fingers hurt, a dull pulsating ache in the tips, radiating down to the bones, but the thrill of working, really working, blanks it out. He starts again, cuts down on the theatrics, on the tempo, follows Richelieu’s lead. It’s not his interpretation of the piece, and certainly not a master’s interpretation, but it’s appropriate, given the frame and Richelieu’s tight, serious take on the overall composition.

 Jean finishes his part – no interruptions this time – and Richelieu gives him a curt nod, gestures him to sit down. Without having to ask for it, there’s been a chair ready this morning. He wonders who put it there. Maybe a sympathetic colleague.

Jean must admit that he is pleasantly surprised that Richelieu suddenly shows a professional minimum of respect and decency towards him (and he shouldn’t be, he shouldn’t have expected further unprofessionalism, but he’ll take what he gets).

The rest of rehearsal goes well. The mood isn’t exactly better, but it’s goal driven. Everyone knows that after the series of performances, with Jean gone, things will go smooth again. Well, he can’t say he’ll miss this.

Richelieu ends rehearsal on time. “Thank you. Tomorrow, an hour later.”

Jean nods, gets his violin when Richelieu’s voice holds him back. (It’s all it does to him, it seems.)

“A word, Mr. Treville?”

“Maestro.”

Rustling and bumping, quiet conversation and goodbyes fill the hall, until the orchestra is gone and he’s alone on stage with Richelieu. He has his hands folded behind his back, the baton left at the conductor’s stand.

“I want to apologize for my behavior towards you. It was inappropriate. It won’t happen again. But if it does… let the board know.” Richelieu doesn’t look at him, not really, and he’s tense. Not used to apologizing, obviously. Not used to being called out, either. Both so very clear in his posture, his face, his stilted wording.

Jean shrugs. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Thank you for staying. See you for rehearsal tomorrow. Unless you need a break…” A vague, kind of awkward gesture towards his bandaged fingers; a gesture untypical for a conductor, not using hands, using shoulder and chin instead. It’s odd how Richelieu keeps his hands firmly behind his back. Like he stepped out of the conductor’s role as soon as he put down the baton. Richelieu the civilian is a lot less confident than Richelieu the conductor; he can’t help but think it was a coincidence that Richelieu was in conductor-mode the first time he met him.

Jean considers the pain in his fingers for a moment. It’s bearable, it’s healing, he can’t waste the others’ time with his absence. They’ve procrastinated long enough. “I’m fine.”

Richelieu nods. “Glad to hear that. Have a good day then, Mr. Treville.”

“It’s Jean,” he says and gives a one-sided smile. “See you tomorrow, maestro.”

“Until tomorrow, Mr. Treville,” Richelieu says and rushes past him.

Jean shakes his head.

Well, nobody can say he didn’t try.

 

 

“It’s three weeks until the premiere,” Armand repeats – for the third time, the _third_ – and tries not to let the anger seep into his voice.

“I’m well aware, maestro. I set the date,” Miss Beauvoir says dryly. “It has come up just now. You will have to bear with me and the short notice of this booking. I’ll try to let you know earlier next time.”

Treville leans against the nearest wall, fingers dancing up and down as if in practice. Armand pointedly looks away and crosses his arms. “With all due respect, but you can’t possible think that I can clear my schedule last-minute for… for this.”

“I fear I must insist.”

“I’m busy and Mr. Treville is busy too, I imagine. To find a time slot that works for both of us? Highly unlikely.”

“Jean?”

“I don’t have plans except attending rehearsal and practicing. If it’s possible to find a time that works for the maestro, it will work for me too.” Treville shrugs, smiling softly. No hint of displeasure at the task burdened onto him from above, for having to agree to a favor that’s not a favor, that is an order posing as favor. Armand hates him for the casualness, the ease, and he hates him for the fact that he doesn’t believe Treville does it to spite him.

Miss Beauvoir smiles. “Thank you, Jean.” Her smile changes (less honest, more annoyed). “So, Armand, can we please be adults here? You appeal to the younger audience as does Jean, if he doesn’t even more so. The two of you together in this campaign will make this demographic accessible for us. And we need them.”

Armand does not roll his eyes at that, again, but he feels the vein on his neck pulsate. “So, what you’re saying is you need their money.”

She looks at him, deadpan. “The Richelieu contributions don’t cover everything. I’m not asking you to do your job. I expect you to do your job. Your family name doesn’t protect your position infinitely.”

Treville doesn’t say anything at that, but he looks at Armand. He feels his face get hot and his hand starting to tremble. A high-pitched noise drills into his skull. He wants to reply, but he can’t. It’s like one of his nightmares came true. His heart races and he feels dizzy. Like someone landed a punch in both his gut and face, simultaneously.

“Can we get back to you after rehearsal, Chloé?”, Treville cuts in, steps forward a bit, making it obvious that he has problems with his leg today. Good thing Armand got him that fucking chair. “The maestro will know more after this session and can get back to you with a schedule. I promise I’ll be free when he is.” He smiles and Miss Beauvoir can’t resist his charms, looks appeased.

He hates her. He hates him.

“See you after rehearsal,” she says and points to the door. “Good luck.”

Armand doesn’t move until Treville tucks at his sleeve and walks him out of the office. He follows blankly. He can’t believe Beauvoir would fucking humiliate him like that, in front of the wonder boy, just because he wants no part in her little photo-shooting, because he’s not her asset, her puppet-

“Do you need a minute?” Treville doesn’t gloat, keeps some distance, and Armand hates him for it. He kind of wants to tell him, but instead he shakes his head, tight-lipped. His fucking hands won’t stop shaking. He wants to take a pill but knows that he can’t if he’s to conduct and not fall asleep.

Armand forces his hands still, says in a low voice: “You didn’t need to do that.”

“No, I didn’t,” Treville replies with a wry smile. His fingers are still dancing and Armand makes himself focus on anything but his hands. “But I did.”

Armand snorts. “Thanks. I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

He gestures vaguely to the bathrooms. “I’ll take that minute after all.”

“Sure. I’ll see you in five, maestro.”

Armand nods. Treville walks away. He hates him. And he hates himself. Mostly, he hates Miss Beauvoir. His family. All of this. Not especially loud, he says: “I owe you, Jean.”

Treville, Jean turns back to him for a moment, smiles thinly. “Yeah, you kinda do, don’t you?”

Armand huffs and turns to the bathroom.

A photo-shoot with the prodigy it is, apparently. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He can’t fucking believe this fucking day.

 

 

The only free time slot Richelieu is willing to give is 10pm the next Friday. Of course, he does so to provoke Chloé, maybe provoke Jean too, but they make the time work without complaint. (The maestro silently seethes and does little to hide it.)

It’s freezing cold and going against every statistic, it _snows_. Heavy sparkling snowflakes sail through the air, getting caught in Jean’s hair, and make the photographer gasp with joy. ( _Magnifique! Excellent! Grandiose!_ )

Jean smiles, coldness prickling on his skin, numbing his cheeks, and the flash makes him see sparks. He enjoys himself, and why not? He’s worked hard to be given such an opportunity and be it for advertising purposes only. Also, he does look great in pictures, it’s a simple fact.

Richelieu stands with his arms crossed – black turtleneck, black scarf, pale lips, frown – and watches him from the sidelines. He doesn’t look happy (but then again, he never does).

They moved the shooting outside, the Paris Symphony now their backdrop. Inside they shot portraits and wide-angled pictures with the orchestra hall as focus point. Dramatic lightning as Richelieu was instructed to dramatically conduct Jean, who was instructed to dramatically play a piece that requires motion. He hopes it doesn’t look as hilarious as it felt, the big exaggerated movements coming from a conductor of small precise gestures. ( _For the audience, for the drama! Magnifique!_ )

“Can I get a shot of you riding the bike?”, the photographer asks, and Jean nods. He’s careful as he sits on his motorbike and secures his leg with a loop. It’s a custom-built model, suitable to ride with his disability, and it’s – aside from his violins – his most expensive and treasured possession. It feels cold all over, but it’s safe and familiar and makes him smile.

“Right, now let me just look for your best angle-”

“This is fine,” Jean says, remaining seated with his leg prominently in the picture. He has nothing to hide. He refuses to hide. He didn’t come all this way to be made into something he’s not.

Chloé, shifting from one foot to the other, clearly freezing underneath her thin pink wool coat, nods. “Yes please, if we may continue?”

Flash, flash, flash, flash. Then Jean is done. He feels light-headed as he slides from the bike and walks back to Chloé and Richelieu. She claps, and he claps twice, looking serious and unamused. Jean doesn’t care and smiles a thank you, as he’s handed a steaming paper cup.

“Now you, maestro. Do you have something of yours that you can pose with? You don’t ride a bike yourself, by any chance?”

Richelieu snorts. “No. No, I do not.” He pulls the scarf from his neck and carelessly drapes it around Jean – why didn’t he stand closer to Chloé and not Richelieu – before he steps on the stairs leading to the symphony.

“Let’s get this over with. You have one pose and five shots,” he says and waves the photographer closer. He says something then, and Jean can’t quite make it out, but he thinks he hears how Richelieu scolds the photographer for _almost freezing his soloist to death_.

Chloé sighs. “Well, this could’ve gone worse. Thank you, Jean, I think he behaves solely because of you.”

Jean smiles apologetically. “I doubt that, but thanks for the trust.”

 

 

“That was your fifth, I’m out,” Armand announces and pulls the sleeves of his turtleneck over his hands, descending the stairs. He can barely feel his fingers, but they vaguely ache, and he’s had enough.

He just wants to go home.

The team wraps up, takes down their equipment, while Beauvoir talks animatedly to the photographer. She seems pleased. Maybe she will get off his back now, at least for a while. Unless this gave her a taste for future advertising projects, and she’ll make him comply even more, demand his media-collaboration regularly-

“That was fun,” Treville says and carefully puts the scarf back around Armand’s neck. He smiles one-sidedly, so at ease with the cold and the company and the situation that Armand feels a sharp sting of jealousy.

He shrugs. “It seems we don’t share an idea of what fun means.”

“I know.” Treville pulls out his phone, cocks an eyebrow. “Past midnight. This does qualify as extra hours, right?”

“I’m sure Miss Beauvoir will make sure you’re compensated accordingly for your time.”

He hums in reply, still smiling. An assistant brings their jackets, the photographer thanks them for their cooperation, and promises to send them the pictures before publication. Armand doesn’t care but Treville looks excited.

“Messieurs, thank you. Get home safely and have a good night.” Chloé shakes his hand and then Treville’s, more enthusiastically. She walks away and he still wonders if she has a crush on him or simply likes him. Fucking heterosexuals.

“Need a lift?”, Treville asks, as he puts on a pair of fingerless gloves. “I have a second helmet.”

Armand feels his chest tighten. Crushed hands, splintered bones, blood. He blinks, makes himself breathe, and shakes his head. “Thank you, I prefer the metro.”

“Yeah, I guess the risk paired with the trust thing is not for everybody”, Treville says and Armand wishes he’d sound malicious, but he doesn’t.

He wants to ask, _Why are you not afraid?_ , but it’s none of his business. Neither Treville’s hobbies nor his safety, and certainly not his goddamn hands. He’s an adult he can do whatever the fuck he wants.

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Armand replies and watches Treville mount that bike of his with a latent feeling of sickness. As he drives away, Armand can’t shake his uneasy feeling.

He wonders how Adalie is doing. He wonders if she would pick up if he called her.

_If_.

He hasn’t tried and he won’t try, and it doesn’t matter anyway.

Armand tightens the scarf, until it’s uncomfortable enough to distract him from everything else. From Beauvoir, Treville, and Adalie. From his ill-fated hands and Treville’s blessed hands. From violins, and celli, and the fucking Paris Symphony.

He focuses on his breathing.

Then he goes home.

 

 

Amélie lets her head fall back and spins around. “Fancy.” A smile flicks over her mouth and the soft light from above washes over her skin. “I hate it.”

Jean smiles, offering Amélie his free arm. “I know. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“And we are seated on the balcony? That’s where the rich old fucks sit.”

“I know. I’m sorry. Thank you,” Jean repeats as Amélie takes his arm and they start walking up the stairs. The fucking stairs. Unwillingly tightening his grip around his cane, he wonders if they designed the orchestra house inaccessible on purpose. They probably just didn’t care.

Sure, Jean could ask to be taken to his seat, but the hassle, the big theatre? The eyerolls? The doubt if he _really_ needs the help because _he’s walking just fine, isn’t he_? Fuck it. He’d rather climb the stairs slowly with Amélie and bear annoyed sighs, murmurs, and shoves from other guests.

The pain in his leg disagrees. It bites viciously, and the pain scatters through bone and muscle, making him stop mid-stair. Amélie raises an eyebrow, concern all over her face. Not pity – never pity.

“We can leave,” she says quietly and throws a cutting smile at a man who is about to say something, probably about them blocking the stairs. (It’s not like the stairs are, you know, broad or anything.)

Jean smiles one-sidedly, shakes his head. “I’ll be fine. I promised my colleagues I’d be here.”

Amélie makes a _hmm_ -noise but doesn’t argue. Jean breathes in, out, in, out, in and lets the imminent pain pass, waits until the familiar ache settles in, and tries to lift his leg. Well, it will have to do-

A body pushing against his. He doesn’t expect the impact, doesn’t react fast enough, tumbles- he lets go of his cane and Amélie, trying to hold onto the handrail, blood rushing through his ears, pounding, heart skipping, anticipating the agony of the fall- when Amélie catches his arm and someone behind him grabs his shoulders.

“Jean, darling?” “Are you okay?” “Watch out, you-”

He knows two of the voices, but his body moves towards the third, the stranger’s. “I _what_? You want to repeat that out loud, sir?”, he grits out and feels a smile stretch over his teeth, but it’s an angry, hurt smile that keeps the tears at bay. He’s not sure it’s doing a good job, though.

“Push him – or anyone – again and I’ll return the favour.” Amélie’s voice is cold and she pulls Jean closer, her fingers secure around his arm. “Pick up the cane, asshole, we have a concert to attend.”

“What kind of language. Shame on you, little lady. Shame on both of you…!”

There’s a small crowd and Jean’s cheeks burn. This is everything he didn’t want, this is bad. The heat trickles down his body, leaving him itchy.

“That is quite enough, sir,” Richelieu says in a sharp voice. “Apologize to Mr. Treville and his companion or I have to ask you to leave.”

“And you are- oh.” Realization dawns on the stranger’s face. “Conductor Richelieu. I’m very sorry.”

“You recognize me but not him? Now, who should be ashamed?” Richelieu clicks his tongue. “Anyway, you don’t have to convince me. Convince them.”

“I’m sorry I ran into you. I apologize for the inconvenience,” the man says, but his eyes betray him. His whole demeanor betrays him. He’s anything but sorry. The only thing, the only one he respects is Richelieu. Or his name. Or his position. Or-

“You disgust me,” Amélie simply states and Jean smiles a little, relief spreading in his chest and replacing the adrenaline.

“It’s okay,” he tells Amélie and turns to the stranger. “Enjoy the orchestra, I hear they are very good.” (He should know, he played with them.)

The man grumbles something and nods at Richelieu before he hurries down.

Richelieu picks up his cane and hands it to him. “Are you alright?”

“Thank you. I’m good.” He takes the cane and Amélie’s hand again. “Armand, this is Amélie – Amélie, this is Armand.”

“Good evening,” Richelieu says curtly. “A pleasure making your acquaintance.”

Amélie just smiles politely in return. She hasn’t forgiven Richelieu his treatment of Jean, she said so and he gets it, so it’s probably for the best that they skip this particular verbal encounter.

“Will you be in the audience, too?”

“Yes,” Richelieu replies and crosses his arms behind his back. Hiding his hands. He looks uncomfortable and Jean relates; it almost makes him laugh.

“Sit with us, Armand,” Amélie suddenly demands. “And bring your company.”

Wait, what? He smiles and shoots Amélie a questioning look, but she ignores him, and so he plays along. “We’d love to have you, but please don’t feel obligated. You have to see me at work all the time anyway.”

“Not me,” Amélie remarks with a wink – and Jean really doesn’t see the plan here.

“I,” Richelieu begins, straightening his posture and not being aware of it, “Thank you for the invitation, Amélie, I’d be honored to join you.” There is the slightest ghost of a smile around his lips; and maybe it’s the first time Jean sees Richelieu smile. “If you don’t mind, Jean? You have to see me at work all the time too.”

The awkwardness diffuses into soft laughter. “I think we’ll be fine, Armand.”

 

 

The Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra plays several pieces. Then, the climax of the evening, they play the highly anticipated [Double Concerto](https://youtu.be/5OjLKhmzQTA?t=65) by Brahms. Thunderous applause echoes through the hall as they bring in Anne-Sophie Mutter and Sol Gabetta as the soloists – both are staying for the length of the tour through Europe and South America, and Armand knows for a fact that they’d offered Mutter’s spot as solo violinist to Treville first.

Armand can’t fathom why he’d rather play the Parisian Symphony than the world, why he’d stay here of all places, but it’s none of his business. He would’ve taken the maestro’s position in a heartbeat, but they went with Marta Gardolińska. (There’s no denying she’s the superior, bolder choice, a braver and more authentic conductor then he’ll ever be, and there’s no denying he would’ve declined the tour offer anyway, so what’s there to hypothesize about? Nothing. He should focus.)

Armand avoids looking at Treville – Jean? -, and sits upright in his chair, while Amélie leans back with closed eyes, waiting for the orchestra to begin. Jean looks at her fondly and Armand realizes he’s been looking. Goddamn heterosexuals, shoving their straight luck into his face. And the pity…! When he’d told them that he was alone here they gave him the most pitiful look. It almost made him leave right away.

Maybe he should’ve. Maybe this is a bad, _bad_ idea.

He can’t shake the feeling that Amélie hates him, and he probably deserves that, but it makes him uneasy anyway. A low rumbling in his chest, the faintest pitching sound in his ear. And fuck him if those aren’t signs of an incoming panic attack. Splendid.

Silence takes the stage and leaves seamlessly as the first notes dance through the air.

Armand is filled with dread and excitement, numbness spreading in his fingers. A concert centering the cello and the violin? What did he _think_. He shouldn’t have come, should’ve made up an excuse, played the eccentric, used his bad reputation-

“They are brilliant,” Jean says quietly, and his fingers move in unison with Mutter’s, calm contentment in his face. “Jade and Noah would fit right in, don’t you think?”

Armand nods curtly. Anxiety scratches relentlessly at the inside of his ribs. He badly wants to fill the cello-heavy air with words, bury the orchestra under his words, but he can’t. Nobody can. They are a force – powerful and beautiful and he wants to cry.

He makes it through the piece somehow, focusing on Jean’s colorful cane. He didn’t realize he used one sometimes. It reminds him of his many violins, speaks clearly of who it belongs to. Everything about him is color and light and life, and the silent hate eats away at Armand’s insides. He feels terrible: about the cello, Jean’s hands, his unwarranted bordering-on-cruel treatment of Jean, and the fact that he can’t escape his own skin.

The break is sudden, and Armand doesn’t follow, until there’s movement both on stage and in the audience and Jean is gone.

“He went to meet Sol and Anne-Sophie, both of whom he’s on a first name basis with, apparently,” Amélie says and crosses her legs, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” She doesn’t say it unkindly, but she doesn’t mask her opinion on Armand either.

“I don’t, actually.” Armand lets his professional persona take over. He doesn’t care, he just needs get through the second half of the concert and then he can leave and not think about this again. “Did you enjoy the Double Concerto?”

“My opinion will hold little value to you, considering that I have no idea about classical music,” Amélie replies with a shrug. “But I liked it.”

Armand nods. He wonders why Amélie invited him to their private balcony; he wonders why he agreed. The uncomfortable energy between them turns into an uncomfortable mood. He wonders when Jean will be back. He wonders why it’s Jean now instead of Treville.

Amélie sighs. “I always thought it was a waste to spend money on seats this expensive when it’s not the visuals you’re paying for.”

“I prefer the rear stalls to the balcony, too.”

Amélie arches an eyebrow, clearly doubting his honesty. “Is that where you were going to sit?”

He leans forward, points to the far back. “That’s my seat there, somewhere. I despise the prominence of these balconies. They are too far in the spotlight for my taste.”

“How do you conduct, if you don’t like the attention?”

“I pretend the audience is not present during performances. It helps, not having to look at them.” He smiles weakly, knows he shouldn’t have said any of this to a stranger. “I would appreciate it if you don’t quote me on that.”

“I can’t make promises,” Amélie replies, but there’s a softness around her lips that’s new. She doesn’t look at him directly, scans the audience, as she continues: “You know, Jean said you weren’t so bad. But he’s kind and his heart is too big and he wants to believe in the good in people. Me? I’m not so inclined.”

“That’s wise, Amélie.”

She hints at a smile. “So, why didn’t you enjoy the Double Concerto?”

Armand blinks, taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“No offense, but you looked like you were ready to throw yourself off that balcony.”

“You’re quite harsh in your assessment,” he says, almost stumbling over his own words, and thinks, _harsh and not entirely wrong_. Slowing down, forcing himself to be calm, to be professional, he adds: “I did enjoy the performance. I apologize if you didn’t enjoy my enjoyment-face, though.”

Amélie makes a humming sound.

“How long have you been together?”, Armand asks and wishes he hadn’t the same moment the words pass over his lips. But it’s too late, he can’t unspeak the question.

“Jean and I?” Amélie looks at him blankly. “I’m his sister, but thanks I guess.”

The first thought is, _I had a sister too_. He cannot voice that thought. “I’m- sorry. Forgive the assumption,” Armand says instead, hastily, clenching his unfeeling fingers to a fist, heat streaking over his cheeks. Knowing they are siblings is worse than thinking they were lovers. Adalie’s voice resides inside his head.

A hand on his arm makes him snap out of it. “Hey, you’re forgiven. Please don’t implode on me, yes?” He looks up and sees Amélie on Jean’s seat, smiling thinly. “I couldn’t bear to be banned from this exquisite house and these superb balconies for breaking the maestro.”

He nods and swallows and the pressure falls.

“You’re intense, Armand.”

“So I’ve been told.” Armand straightens his back. “You’re a delight, Amélie.”

“So I’ve been told.”

They engage in light conversation (which is surprisingly easy, suddenly) until Jean returns. He smiles brightly and takes his place on Amélie’s seat. “What did I miss?”

“Armand thought we were a couple.”

“I- I did err in my evaluation.”

“He’s also less stuck-up than I thought.”

“Thank you?”

“He can come with us to the _Rossignol_ later.”

Jean smiles a little at Armand. (His heart hurts.) “Did she ask you before she included you in our plans?”

“No, I made an assumption,” Amélie replies with a smile.

“I’d love to come if you’ll have me.” Armand can’t fucking believe his fucking mouth.

“Sure,” Jean says with ease and taps on his cane, watching the orchestra take their place on the stage.

In a lowered voice, before the lights dim down, Armand asks Amélie: “What is the _Rossignol_?”

She laughs and joins the audience clapping.

 

 

Amélie takes the stage like it’s hers. Well, Jean supposes it is. The stage, her bar, they are her home. The music, at heart, is her home. They are siblings after all. He smiles and she winks at him, throws back her hair and grabs the mic.

Armand sits quietly, holding – on to – a drink. The warmth of his hand and the chill of the ice cubes make water drops lazily run down the glass. He’s intent on not looking at him, avoids making eye-contact, and watches Amélie. Tense, but not exactly uncomfortable.

Amélie’s voice fills the room and floats above it at the same time. Tonight, she’s accompanied by a piano only. It carries her voice even higher, higher, higher, so high that it settles deep between bone and flesh. Almost religiously.

Jean closes his eyes. His leg hurts, but the aching is a constant background noise that never quite makes it to the front. It’s more annoying than painful, for his chronic pain standards anyway. The singing, music and chatter wash over him and he lets them take him away for a while.

“Are you alright?”, Armand asks in a lowered voice.

Jean stretches his neck, opening his eyes. The low lights make Armand look soft and he smiles because if there’s anything Armand isn’t, it’s soft. “Just tired. It’s been a long day.”

Armand nods curtly. “It’s gotten rather late. Give Amélie my best, will you?”

“That wasn’t a passive-aggressive cue for you to leave,” Jean says kindly, “unless you want to.”

“I- sorry. I’m not good with people.”

“You don’t say.” Jean smiles and Armand surprises him by giving him a thin smile back. He takes a sip of his drink – and then he lets go of the glass. There’s the slightest of trembles in his fingers, and he covers his hand with his other. It’s not exactly hiding, but it’s close. His smile is back, weary.

“It gets numb if I overstrain it and I figure holding tightly to everything in range will do that to a hand.” He sounds angry and bitter, concealing it badly behind nonchalance. It’s more human than Jean’s seen him since they met. Armand doesn’t look at him, looks at his hand, looks, and looks disgusted.

“Well,” Jean says, “seems like we do have something in common after all.” He moves his leg a little and it shoots a sharp sensation through his nerves, all down his foot, all up his hip. Time for the pills, then (bless himself for not drinking).

“How do you do it?”

Jean raises an eyebrow, swallows the pills. “Do what?”

“Your… sunshine and rainbows act.”

“That _act_ is hard fucking work.” Jean shrugs. “But I guess you’re familiar with that concept.” Before Armand can speak, he adds: “I won’t use it against you. I’d never do that. Just in case you’re getting passive-aggressive messages from me again.”

“I know,” Armand says and looks like he means it.

“So, how do you like the _Rossignol_?”

“It’s. It’s a beautiful place.” Armand’s eyes find the stage. “Your sister is the nightingale, isn’t she?”

Jean laughs. “Most of the time. Unless she’s really drunk, then she can’t hold a single tune. But who can?”

“Not me, certainly.”

Suddenly there are arms around Jean’s chest. Sweet perfume clouds his head. He smiles as Florence kisses his cheek. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming.”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming either. I haven’t seen you since you fled my bed to practice your other finger work.”

Jean grins, pulls out a chair, and gestures Florence to sit down. “Sorry. I should’ve called.”

“You should’ve.” She sits, radiant and with too-bright-red lips, clicking her tongue. “I heard you’ve been busy dealing with that asshole conductor?”

“About that,“ Jean begins and feels heat creep up his face, even though that’s not a secret and he was in the right calling Armand _that asshole_ _conductor_ – given, he called him that in front of Amélie and not Florence, and he has to wonder why information travels that fast and word-for-word.

“As usual, my reputation precedes me,” Armand cuts in and extends his hand. “I’m Armand. I apologize for interfering with your private life.”

“Well, I guess since you’re here together you’re forgiven.” She raises a brow at Jean before turning back to Armand. “I’m Florence.” Her smile is genuine and uncaring, and she takes Armand’s hand. “At least he’s hot, you didn’t mention that,” Florence whispers as she leans closer to Jean but it’s deliberate a stage-whisper and she checks Armand’s reaction.

Jean sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

Armand laughs quietly. “I don’t know if that’s a redeeming quality, but thank you, Florence.”

“Anytime,” she replies and winks at Armand, then gives Jean a suggestive look. “Call me when you’re done being busy with the hot asshole conductor.” She kisses Jean on the cheek, then Armand. “See you around, Armand.”

“Goodbye, Florence.”

“Bye,” Jean adds and waves with one hand. As she’s gone, he smiles weakly at Armand. “Is it my turn to apologize?”

“No. Your friend…” He stops. “I don’t mean to assume. She is your friend, right? Or another sister?”

“That would be positively fucked up,” Jean says, knitting his brows together. There’s a shift in Armand’s smile, and suddenly Jean gets it. “Oh, that was a joke?”

“Indeed.”

Jean laughs. “Let’s repeat that for Amélie later, she’ll love it.”

“As you wish,” Armand says and smiles softly.

 

 

“Well, I’m gonna go,” Amélie announces, putting her hands on Jean’s shoulders from behind. He looks up to her, smiles lightly. It’s so easy for them to be around each other.

Armand envies them. He doesn’t dare think of Adalie, but she’s in the room all the same. Amélie smiles and Armand pushes the thought of his sister away.

“You’re just going to leave your guests behind?”, Jean asks and Amélie’s smile broadens.

Her cheeks are red and it’s not the rouge, her eyes glassy and bright, hair sticking to her forehead and neck. “I actually have another guest of my own to entertain. In a more private setting. That you’re not invited to. Just to clarify.”

Armand follows her gaze and spots a woman in a suit – crimson lips, buzzcut, rough boots – rolling a cigarette at the bar. Oh. He feels the need to apologize again, for before, but he guesses Amélie has put it behind her and that if he brings it up again it would only cause further awkwardness-

“I’ll introduce you next time,” Amélie says and hugs Armand. “That is me, making an assumption again.” Her voice is kind and even though Armand doesn’t hug her back, she doesn’t seem to mind, and gives him a smile. “Have a good night, boys.”

Armand manages to return – at least – the smile before she rushes off, pulling her guest close, kissing her, and leaving.

“You wanna call it a night, too?”, Jean asks softly and Armand can’t read the look on his face. It’s only then that he notices his hand shaking, bad. He pulls it off the table and covers it with his other hand, pressing down. But it doesn’t stop. It just doesn’t stop.

Frustration claws at his chest. He forces a smile, tries to dismiss it. “I’m fine. But I think I want to. I want to go home now, if that is alright with you.”

Armand gets up. When did the bar get so empty? A cold wave of anxiety rushes through his body. He looks at his phone. 01:24 in the morning on a Tuesday. No metro, not until 5. Of fucking course. He goes out one night, one night in which he doesn’t watch the time, and this happens. He has something resembling fun one night and then it ends like that. Tears burn in his throat.

“Hey, do you want me to call you a cab?” Worry makes Jean look older.

Armand shakes his head, panicky, almost violently. “I’m fine.” It doesn’t even convince himself.

Armand feels like he’s spinning. He can’t _walk_ home. It’s too far. And he can’t wait until public transport is ready again, that would be ridiculous. But mostly, he can’t – he won’t – take a fucking car. He wonders if there are any hotels near that will take him in for the night and he wonders how he can leave without Jean noticing that he’s…

Jean empties his soda and stands up, leaning heavily on his cane. “Look, I live around the corner. Literally. It’s so close I’m positive I can manage to walk there.” He shrugs, hints a smile. “But just in case I don’t, I think you should take me there. And then sleep at my place. Because, let’s face it, if I lost the Paris Symphony’s conductor… it wouldn’t reflect well on me.”

Armand laughs shakily. “You don’t have to…”

“Look at it as a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

Armand searches for pity in Jean’s face – he doesn’t know whether to be disappointed, irritated or relieved that he doesn’t find any. He swallows. Nods. “I’ll walk you home,” is all his pride lets him say but he hopes – promises himself – that he will thank Jean at some point. Maybe once this is over, once they don’t have to work with each other anymore, once they say goodbye and won’t see each other again.

Armand used to crave that day. Now he’s not so sure anymore.

“Much appreciated,” is all Jean says in return. His smile tells Armand he’s welcome.

They leave. And maybe that’s the most astonishing thing that happens, that when their hands brush as they leave the _Rossignol_ , that Armand doesn’t feel crushing self-consciousness about his own hand, that he feels nothing but the warm touch of another hand.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

Jean just smiles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out and a huge thank you to [naeviastark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/naeviastark/pseuds/naeviastark) for the beautiful art <3 Since this is a methodically slow slow-burn fic, I thank you for your patience and duck away into the shadows... or something. THANKS for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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